pass, Cutler insisted that we disperse the rabble with a whiff of grapeshot. Kit loaded, and Cutler fired, a canister round that left a dozen woogs, and even a handful of the harmless little blue things, dead but parted the herd.
Before we could resume progress, a lone bull woog stumbled across our path. He had a corkscrew rack as wide as a four seat electric is long. Kit said the bull had probably fallen behind its herd because it was so old that it was blind. It would be striper
kill within a day. Reasonable, indeed humane, to let Cutler shoot it with the .50, right?
Guess again. Cutler was no woodsman, but he was a quick study. He remembered the trophies he had ruined on the first day, so he poured rounds into the old animal’s hind quarters.
Then Cutler held fire, and let the beast bleat and writhe, dragging its ruined two legs behind it with its remaining four, while it bled to death.
At Cutler’s insistence, we idled along behind the suffering bull for six minutes. Finally, Kit, topside in the loader’s hatch, swore under her breath, unslung her Barrett, and aimed at the suffering animal. If she hadn’t, I would have.
Before she fired, a crested mature male striper thundered out of the brush. Presumably attracted by the woog’s agony, the striper bowled the wounded woog over like a runaway mag rail and finished it.
We set Cutler up on the turret in seated firing position, gave him a HATT to use on the feeding striper, then retreated below to await a dud or a miss. HATTs were supposed to be recoilless, but in fact kicked hard enough to bruise most shooters. I suppose a part of me hoped the HATT would blow up in Cutler’s face.
Amazingly, the blunderbuss took the monster down. Its shaped-charge warhead carved a survivable-looking entry wound, but an exit wound that I could have duck-walked into without bumping my head on a rib. The striper enjoyed his last meal, and never knew what hit him. Cutler got a black eye where the HATT’s sight got driven back against his eye socket, which made my day. A good time was had by all.
Except for Zhondro and me, and the maintenance ’bot, who had to spend two hours uncoupling the floater from the Abrams, severing and cryoing the two animals’ unspoiled trophy heads, and tying them down to the floater’s decking.
We left the carcasses for Mother Nature to police up, but I made sure that we packed up and carried out all the rest of our trash. A legionnaire is a guest on the worlds he serves. It said so right in my oath. When I told Kit that, she rolled her eyes and said that was the only way in which I resembled a “Boy Scout.” I couldn’t tell whether it was an insult or a compliment.
Then Zhondro and I sat, legs dangling over the floater’s deck. We let the warm, clockwork-regular afternoon rain sluice blood off our hands and forearms, while we scrubbed at them.
Kit manned the Commander’s .50, watching for unwanted visitors, wearing an earpiece that connected to a handheld sensor, which was supposed to duplicate a Rover ’bot’s grezzen detection capabilities.
I realized that Cutler had used the woog’s struggles as bait to attract a bigger trophy.
I shook my head. These animals were capable of crushing Cutler like a bug. But given his intellect, cunning, and firepower, it had scarcely been a fair fight. The only animal capable of giving man a fair fight is man. Actually, among ourselves, we fight unfairest of all. And the more we practice, the nastier we get.
Foom . Foom . Foom .
Three Kodiak main gun blasts echoed through the Tassin night.
Barroom !
One Kodiak shot found an enemy crawler, and detonated its ammunition.
Suarez reported. “We picked one off in the wadi, skipper. Hardly seems like a fair fight.”
The last thing a good commander wants is a fair fight. I had deployed Suarez’ tank to cover the wadi that wound past our left flank. Suarez was a drug pusher from Mousetrap who joined the Legion to duck jail. But he was my best tank
Before we could resume progress, a lone bull woog stumbled across our path. He had a corkscrew rack as wide as a four seat electric is long. Kit said the bull had probably fallen behind its herd because it was so old that it was blind. It would be striper
kill within a day. Reasonable, indeed humane, to let Cutler shoot it with the .50, right?
Guess again. Cutler was no woodsman, but he was a quick study. He remembered the trophies he had ruined on the first day, so he poured rounds into the old animal’s hind quarters.
Then Cutler held fire, and let the beast bleat and writhe, dragging its ruined two legs behind it with its remaining four, while it bled to death.
At Cutler’s insistence, we idled along behind the suffering bull for six minutes. Finally, Kit, topside in the loader’s hatch, swore under her breath, unslung her Barrett, and aimed at the suffering animal. If she hadn’t, I would have.
Before she fired, a crested mature male striper thundered out of the brush. Presumably attracted by the woog’s agony, the striper bowled the wounded woog over like a runaway mag rail and finished it.
We set Cutler up on the turret in seated firing position, gave him a HATT to use on the feeding striper, then retreated below to await a dud or a miss. HATTs were supposed to be recoilless, but in fact kicked hard enough to bruise most shooters. I suppose a part of me hoped the HATT would blow up in Cutler’s face.
Amazingly, the blunderbuss took the monster down. Its shaped-charge warhead carved a survivable-looking entry wound, but an exit wound that I could have duck-walked into without bumping my head on a rib. The striper enjoyed his last meal, and never knew what hit him. Cutler got a black eye where the HATT’s sight got driven back against his eye socket, which made my day. A good time was had by all.
Except for Zhondro and me, and the maintenance ’bot, who had to spend two hours uncoupling the floater from the Abrams, severing and cryoing the two animals’ unspoiled trophy heads, and tying them down to the floater’s decking.
We left the carcasses for Mother Nature to police up, but I made sure that we packed up and carried out all the rest of our trash. A legionnaire is a guest on the worlds he serves. It said so right in my oath. When I told Kit that, she rolled her eyes and said that was the only way in which I resembled a “Boy Scout.” I couldn’t tell whether it was an insult or a compliment.
Then Zhondro and I sat, legs dangling over the floater’s deck. We let the warm, clockwork-regular afternoon rain sluice blood off our hands and forearms, while we scrubbed at them.
Kit manned the Commander’s .50, watching for unwanted visitors, wearing an earpiece that connected to a handheld sensor, which was supposed to duplicate a Rover ’bot’s grezzen detection capabilities.
I realized that Cutler had used the woog’s struggles as bait to attract a bigger trophy.
I shook my head. These animals were capable of crushing Cutler like a bug. But given his intellect, cunning, and firepower, it had scarcely been a fair fight. The only animal capable of giving man a fair fight is man. Actually, among ourselves, we fight unfairest of all. And the more we practice, the nastier we get.
Foom . Foom . Foom .
Three Kodiak main gun blasts echoed through the Tassin night.
Barroom !
One Kodiak shot found an enemy crawler, and detonated its ammunition.
Suarez reported. “We picked one off in the wadi, skipper. Hardly seems like a fair fight.”
The last thing a good commander wants is a fair fight. I had deployed Suarez’ tank to cover the wadi that wound past our left flank. Suarez was a drug pusher from Mousetrap who joined the Legion to duck jail. But he was my best tank
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